


Flowers for Hanna

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Bad Code
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and closure for Samantha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers for Hanna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randolhllee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randolhllee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Long Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695514) by [randolhllee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randolhllee/pseuds/randolhllee). 



 

It had been over a decade since the last time Root was in Bishop. A lot had changed, that was for sure. While driving to the town, she passed the area where her house used to stand—now it was a gas station. She was sure she would not miss anything when she sold it and she was right. Despite the slight nostalgia every turn brought, she was not there to dwell on the past. She was there to tie up the loose ends.

 

The local cemetery was located on the other side of the town, just a bit before the border. Root navigated her way to it with ease; two bouquets of flowers occupied the passenger seat. She had not visited her mother since she moved out from Texas, but her grave was well-kept. With all the money she acquired, paying a caretaker was not a problem (he definitely deserved the amount of cash she had spent). Thankfully for her, at such time of the day, the cemetery was empty of human presence. Nobody would walk up to her for a mindless chat or interfere with her business. The dark marble was cool under her palm; Root smoothed her hand over it like she did on her mother’s forehead at the final year of her life.

 

“Hey, Mom.” Root crouched before the headstone, laying the first bouquet in front of it. “I told you I probably won’t come here again.” She smiled as she recalled her younger self did a similar talk before.

 

Even though she grew up from an outcast to the girl everyone was drooling over in high school, Sam had no interest in forging any deeper connection with another human being, outside to hone her manipulating skill. Despite their contrasting outlooks on technology and the future, her mother was her real best friend throughout adolescence. She only stopped talking to her after she passed away; talking to a tombstone was decidedly counterproductive.

 

“But here I am.” She fidgeted with the engraved name. Silence felt more meaningful, so she stayed there for long minutes, doing nothing. “They found Hanna a week ago... I’m going to pay a visit to her now,” she said as she got back to her feet—they had fallen asleep some time ago, but she forced herself to ignore the dull pain and walk away.

 

Hanna’s grave was further into the graveyard. The fresh soil gave it away, as it was the only grave around that was not covered by green grass. It also had not marked permanently yet. Root made a mental note to order a headstone similar to her mother’s and include Hanna’s grave in her deal with the caretaker as she placed her second bouquet amongst others that had been there for at least a couple of days.

 

Standing there alone, without knowing what to say, it quickly became too awkward for Root. Hanna and she were not that close to each other in the first place. She was that nerdy kid whom skipped grades and spent too many time playing computer in the library because her mother worked a lot. Hanna was well-rounded, beautiful and smart and did not cast her away too harshly like everyone else. She liked her and looked up to her. Now that she thought about it, without bitterness clouding over her brain, Hanna might be her first crush. Root chastised herself as she felt her cheeks warm up in response.

 

“Sorry,” Root eventually whispered. A hand patted the wooden cross currently marking the grave, hesitated not unlike those afternoons when she met Hanna on her locker to ask whether she would go to the library again afterwards (and if she would like to walk there together—young Sam was so smitten). “I’m sorry it took so long to save you.”

 

With one last glance towards the name painted on the cross, she sighed then left the cemetery. Her steps were taken with more determination than when she arrived. Hanna had had the proper burial she deserved; it was time for Sam to gain her own closure. She needed to face her first bad code in order to do so.

 

* * *

The Russell’s house was eerily exactly as it was, from its white paint to the lamps on each side of the door. The jarring difference was the cardboard stuck together by duct tapes, filling in what used to be decorative glass on the door. It appeared that Hanna’s father and uncle had done their job and Cody Grayson was no longer the town’s black sheep.

 

Root slipped into her new cover like fitted gloves. She set her jaw and rounded her shoulders, but gripped to her briefcase a little too hard to be comfortable and tugged at the rim of her jacket almost unconsciously. Her repulsion was tamed into a more acceptable hidden fierceness in her eyes, with the barest hint of anxiety. There was a slight upward tug on the corner of her lips—not quite a smile, but it was there—to soften the overall sternness. Her whole being screamed importance (and a light tone of underlying nervousness), Barbara Russell caught onto it the moment she peered from behind the door.

 

“Elise Kinnian, Assistant District Attorney.” Root flashed the fake ID she had forged beforehand. She had to feign clearing her throat to hide the scoff that threatened to break her persona when no trace of recognition showed on Barbara’s face, despite the sixteen paperbacks of _Flowers for Algernon_ she sent her every year. “I’m here for the Frey case.”

 

From behind the door, Barbara sighed then undid the chain lock. “Come in,” she said not too-happily.

 

They went straight to the kitchen, where a pot of coffee was waiting on the table. Barbara refilled her own then poured a glass for her guest, without asking beforehand, as she motioned her to take a seat. Ever since those NYPD detectives barged into her house nights ago and eventually discovered her late husband’s crime, everyone from the sheriff department to local newspaper’s journalists had been on her. She was tired of this continuous unwanted exposure.

 

Root tried not to grin too wide, but the apologetic look on her face was genuine. She did feel sorry for Barbara, for being so dumb and blind and failed to see what was right in front of her. She once considered killing her along with Trent—not because the nasty things she had called her, those only served to fortify her belief in humans’ rottenness—but resolved on letting her live. Dying would be too easy; someone like Barbara did not deserve such quick, clean end.

 

“So, Mrs. Russell—“

 

“Barbara,” the librarian interjected. “Please call me Barbara.”

 

“As you wish, Barbara,” Root might or might not say the name in singsong voice. “Can you tell me what you have told the sheriff before?”

 

And so Barbara did. Root leaned forward, elbows on the dining table with fingers intertwined together to prop up her chin. She was listening to the tale with utter interest whilst studying the shift of Barbara’s expressions with each point unraveling in the story. There was a lot of remorse, accompanied by guilt and shame. She could see contempt blooming whenever Trent Russell got brought up. It was so amusing for her to watch.

 

“I’m sorry,” Root interrupted for the first time. She intentionally tilted her head to one side, faux innocence on her face. “I didn’t get the last part, can you please repeat it?”

 

Barbara exhaled tiredly. “Hanna’s friend, Sam Groves, who made the 911 call, told me the same thing. She saw Hanna get into a car and she thought it was Mr. Russell. Then...” A shaky deep breathe reflected the frustration she was feeling. No matter how many times she had retold the story, this part was always the hardest. “Then I told her that she was a nasty, attention-seeking brat. I couldn’t believe she thought such a terrible thing about Trent. Then I told her to stop lying and keep her mouth shut. I was young and in love, but Sam was right. It was Trent in the car and he killed Hanna. Sam didn’t lie...” She cocked a brow at the empty yellow legal pad lying in front of ‘Elise’. “Aren’t you going to write this down?”

 

“Oh! You’re right, I’m sorry. Your story is so compelling that I forgot what I’m supposed to do, silly me... You need to write it here.” Root pushed the pad to Barbara, along with a pen on top of it. She then cracked her character—or what she had wanted it seemed to be. It was much easier to acquire cooperation when she was seen as harmless; she had learned it for a long time. “You know, it’s not every day we solve a case from decades ago. The papers are so eager in writing the story about a woman living with corpse buried in the back patio, killed by her late husband before their marriage—I’m so so sorry.” She didn’t, but Barbara did not know that. Root had perfected her mask, with so many layers that it was impossible to see through. “So, uh, right... I’ll leave you to write your statement—please put your full name and signature by the end—while I... I don’t know... May I take a peek at the crime scene?”

 

What little annoyance Barbara felt at first was replaced by surprise, then as expected, she relaxed. “Sure.” She nodded toward the backdoor before started writing down her side of the story.

 

Payback was so sweet, Root mused. She did not step onto the backyard, though, opting to stand behind the closed door and stare at the hole on the ground through the glass. Dug out soil and yellow tapes littered on what used to be a clean patio. Just like how Barbara had kept Trent’s car in the garage, Root knew she would also continue living in the house with the ghost of a dead girl under the patio. She was just that dumb.

 

Root could not stop herself from drawing parallel between Hanna and Algernon; both were buried on someone’s backyard, forgotten. To think that Hanna was there for years gave her an awful feeling. Although even if she knew where to search, nobody would believe her back then, because Barbara did a great job in making people think Sam was an attention whore.

 

“Miss Kinnian?” Barbara called once the scribbling had stopped. “I’m done.”

 

All pretenses were down when Root faced her. She glanced at the tidy sentences written between the lines, humming in approval then secured it in her briefcase. A token of the encounter, she supposed. She was done acting as someone else; her spectator did not deserve such remarkable performance. Barbara, blind as she was to minuscule details of her surrounding, did not notice the subtle changes.

 

“Am I going to get charged, Miss Kinnian?”

 

This time, Root did not bother hiding her real smile. The situation was beyond ridiculous. “I hope they will, but obstruction of justice is nothing on a cold case.” She shrugged uninterestedly then mocked with an exasperated shake of her head, “You really have no idea of who I am, don’t you?”

 

Barbara merely furrowed her brows. They soon hiked up to her hairline when Root produced a copy of _Flowers for Algernon_ from her briefcase, sliding it over the table. Shocked and in disbelief as she stared, wide-eyed, at the book and then at Root.

 

“Sam?”

 

Root did not confirm or deny the question. “Last book. Have a nice day, _Mrs. Russell_.” She spun on her heel and went straight to the door.

 

“Wait, Sam!”

 

Heavy steps followed the cry and Root, against her better judgment, paused with one hand holding on the doorknob. Barbara was standing a few feet behind her; she could feel her presence without looking back, guilt-ridden and unsuspecting. It would be so easy to reach the gun in her jacket and shoot her. _Too_ easy. Root did not do easy. Root was self control, handling contingencies, and basically doing the long game all the time.

 

“I... I’m sorry,” Barbara squeaked. “For what I’ve told you before, for what—“

 

Root was out of the door before Barbara could finish whatever she wanted to say. She did not care; apology was not what she sought for, as it meant nothing for her. She had discovered her God and she could not stay stuck in the past if she wanted to move into the future. Closure—closing that particular chapter of her old life, one that was left in cliffhanger—was the main reason of her visit. The apology was a nice bonus, though. Her shoulders felt lighter, the invisible weight no longer hanging over her frame. It did not, however, undo who she had become.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Root is like an onion. So many layers to her character. A fascinating, very good-looking onion I don't mind eating... or crying over... or stealing from Shaw (does Shaw even like onion?)


End file.
